


Porphyria

by LauraHollis



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: F/M, I can't believe work was so dead that I wrote this during my shift, My First Work in This Fandom, Spoilers for s5ep7 and 8
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-06
Updated: 2016-03-06
Packaged: 2018-05-25 00:30:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6172876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LauraHollis/pseuds/LauraHollis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'As it happened, Spike was quite the non sequitur, himself. Slayer of Slayers, the former “Big Bad” of Sunnydale.  And here he was, letting his heart be torn from his very body, just watching this teenager cry. Everything this stupid girl did left him breathless. (In the poetic way, of course. Spike hadn’t needed to fill his lungs since the early eighties. Of the previous century.)<br/>Which is where he is now. Breathing in deeply, filling his senses with her scent. The sweater is pink, hideous, and fuck all if it doesn’t smell perfect.'</p><p>Instead of Riley walking in on Spike, it's a shaken, visibly exhausted Buffy. Set alternating between Fool For Love and Shadow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Porphyria

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for s05ep07 "Fool for Love" and s05ep08 "Shadow."
> 
> Switches between a missing scene from the end of ep07 and a slight canon divergence for s05ep08.
> 
> First time writing anything for Buffy; this was mostly to get a feel for the characters.  
> Also, I wrote this because I'm Spuffy trash and there's no hope for me. Enjoy!
> 
> [Poem mentioned is Robert Browning's 'Porphyria's Lover'. I'm sure my Brit Lit professor is proud. Cheers to you, Ms. Moore.]

He’s fucking pathetic, and he knows it. When he waltzes through the door of the Summers household, throwing his blanket over the banister, he tries to pretend he doesn’t know she’s out. He knows she’s at the hospital, hell, she bloody  _ told  _ him. Out on the porch last night. She shoulda known better, exposing herself after sunset, no weapons in sight. She’s the effing  _ slayer _ , and just sat outside in the cool night, knowing she pissed off the “Big Bad” only hours before. (Was he even the “Big Bad”, anymore? It’s no secret that he hasn’t been in a long while. It seems Spike does a lot of pretending, nowadays.)

He was ready to kill her, in that moment. Little bitch, haunting his thoughts, his dreams, and dredging up memories he’d tried to suppress for so long. Looking at him with the same distaste, same fucking  _ words  _ as Cecily. Fuck knows it’s been probably ‘bout a hundred and twenty years, but those words were deeper engraved in his mind than that bloody chip. He thought, after all this time, that those petty human worries would be laughable. But when she pushed him away… 

_ you’re beneath me. _

He was no longer Spike. He was no longer the Big Bad. He was William; the spurned, pathetic young poet who was so desperate for love.

The shotgun was heavy in his hands. Why hadn’t he been able to murder the little gint years earlier? Dru had known. He hadn’t.

And then he heard the sniffling. Saw her shoulders shaking. 

“Are you okay?”

The gun grew heavier. He had dropped it without a second thought. Something...  _ deep  _ twisted in his stomach. Something human that hadn’t awakened in over a century. He bit the inside of his cheek.

“Is there something I can do?”

He stared at her. She stared back, tears brimming, and, hell, it was a non sequitur that the Slayer, the force of the hurricane, the reason demons themselves had nightmares, was looking at him with such vulnerability. Such despair and innocence that made him remember that, underneath all the legends that surrounded her, all the training and violence she’d been subjected to, she was still just a girl. Just a scared human girl.

As it happened, Spike was quite the non sequitur, himself. Slayer of Slayers, the former “Big Bad” of Sunnydale.  And here he was, letting his heart be torn from his very body, just  _ watching  _ this teenager cry. Everything this stupid girl did left him breathless. (In the poetic way, of course. Spike hadn’t needed to fill his lungs since the early eighties. Of the previous century.)

Which is where he is now. Breathing in deeply, filling his senses with her scent. The sweater is pink, hideous, and fuck all if it doesn’t smell perfect. Like daisies, and that body mist on her dresser. ‘Pink Champagne’. Probably bathed in that stuff, what with her smelling lovely, even during combat. Not even the dusty residue of his former acquaintances turn him off to that pretty little vixen’s scent.

Her room is cute. Lively and lived in. Doesn’t have a telly, but this definitely ranks higher than his crypt. His eyes wander to the window. Angelus used to stalk her outside on that ledge. Used to watch her sleep and essentially torture her, though not as severely as Drusilla. If he hadn’t gotten his soul back, who knew how it might have escalated? The thought angers him, though the anger is misplaced. He’s tried to kill Buffy a thousand times over with no remorse. Angelus had loved her. Truly loved her, though the thought makes Spike gag. But, if he’d loved her so much, why the bleeding hell had that fallen away when he’d lost his soul?  _ He  _ didn’t have a soul. Must mean his love was real, was better than what Angelus would ever give her. Maybe if he had a soul, he’d love her even more. He gags, again. Not even her love would be reason enough to put himself through  _ that  _ hell.

Her bed is next to him, and after a moment’s hesitation he sits. The pillows smell like her shampoo. Coconut, he reckons. Something tropical. Made her hair all bouncy and shiny and perfect. There’s quite a lot about her that’s perfect, he’s concluding. Next to her bed is a book, open to a page a fourth of the way through. It’s gathering just a bit of dust. Seems she hasn’t had much time for reading, lately. Through the Looking-Glass, it is. He nearly suppresses a laugh. He remembers when the book first hit the shelves. Hadn’t been all that impressed with his poetry. Spike--or, then, William-- had been more inclined to the likes of Elizabeth Browning, of her exclamations of love and sorrow. Nonsense, William had thought haughtily, had no place in poetry. The whole genre was supposed to be sophisticated, to arouse the senses and tug at heartstrings. Instead, the man had turned the genre into a mockery.

Bloody Carroll. 

Maybe he should go. Were they still extreme enough nemesis’ that to go comfort her at the hospital would be considered taboo? No. No, there couldn’t be any word of this getting out. Comforting her last night had been okay. There weren’t any demons, even humans, about to see them. A hospital full of people, seeing him envelop the Slayer in a hug? That was a surefire way to get a stake through the heart by another demon… or Buffy herself. He’d be labelled a traitor. No longer the slayer of Slayers. More like the fuckin’  _ snogger  _ of Slayers.

Though, maybe that wouldn’t be too bad. For his pleasure only, of course. Bet she’s a freak in the sack.

Last night came back to him, as he flipped through her book, looking at the written footnotes. Most of them had been ‘Ask Willow’. Her handwriting is messy and there’s entirely too much of it. Girl loves to talk, he knows.

Except, last night, she didn’t.

When she hadn’t answered him, he sat beside her. This was the closest they’d ever been without the threat of violence in the air. His hand tentatively reached for her, patting her back. When she let him, that twisting feeling had returned. What the soddin’ hell was she doing to him?

They sat in silence for a long time. She was the first to speak.

“Mom’s going to the hospital. A CAT scan. There’s something wrong with her and it’s getting worse.”

Spike nodded. They were still both staring ahead, afraid to look at each other. “If she spawned you, Summers, she’s gotta be tough. Sure she’ll be back to her ol’ self again soon.”

“I’m taking Dawn to the hospital after mom’s scan. I don’t want to freak her out, though. After dad left, she…”

Buffy trailed off. Her voice had wavered. It seemed she’d finally met an enemy she couldn’t fight.

“Well, she’s related to you, ain’t she? Tough as nails. Don’t worry ‘bout her.”

Buffy didn’t respond, but he assumed she’d nodded. The silence stretched between them again.

“The gun.” She said, which caused Spike to finally look at her. Her gaze was far away, somewhere past the backyard. “You were going to kill me.” There was no emotion in it. Just stating a fact.

“Well… yeah. Yeah, I was.”

“But you didn’t.”

He studied her face. “I know. I sure thought I was goin’ to. Don’t think I want to, anymore. Where’d the fun in that be?” Cockiness crept into his voice, but she hadn’t reacted. “‘Sides, Slayer. There’s still a wide variety of demons out there that’d like to kick my arse. Less work for me if you do it.”

She nodded. She’d stopped crying, mostly. Her eyes were puffy and her cheeks were rosy and, shit, he wanted to kiss her. Fuck knows that hadn’t gone well the first time. He pushed the notion away. Instead, he put his hand on her right shoulder. After a moment, she leaned into him. If he had a heartbeat, it would have escalated profoundly.

“This isn’t some sick joke, right? You’re not about call out Harmony and her crew from behind the bushes to murder me?”

“Course not, love. You think I’d let Harmony have the honor a’ killing you? Nah. That’s mine. When the time comes.”  _ If  _ it comes.

Her head was on his shoulder. He sucked in a breath. A line from Browning’s husband came to mind.

_ I propped her head up as before, only, this time my shoulder bore  _

_ Her head, which droops upon it still: the smiling rosy little head. _

Was quite morbid, it context. It was strikingly fit, or so would he have said years ago, for the situation. He could mirror the poem, if he’d liked. Tie a tress of her beautiful gold locks around her neck and pull ‘til she no longer stirred. At some point, he would have, without question.

But she was not his Porphyria. 

They stayed that way for a long while, Spike passing the time by paying close attention to her slowing heartbeat. Her breath evening. Her coconut shampoo.

The coconut shampoo that he’s still breathing in on her pillow. 

It was right creepy of him to still be here-- hell, be here at all. Felt a little too intimate. His eyes land on her stuffed animal. That was almost endearing. He laid back on her pillow again.

“What the  _ hell  _ are you doing in here?”

He shoots up, trying to stammer out a poor excuse. “I-- I thought I’d see if you were home, ‘cause I was… passing through the neighbourhood--”

“In broad  _ daylight _ ?”

Fuck. She’s got him there. “Just wanted to see if Joyce was alright. Woman makes great hot chocolate. I fancied our talks.”

Buffy’s eyes are still red, dark circles beneath them. He’s never seen her look so… so _ drained. _ He pats the bed beside him. She shoots him an incredulous look, but sits. Silence. That’s all there’s been between them, after last night. Radio static.

“It’s a shadow. They have to do a… a biopsy. I had to get away for a little. It’s going to take a few hours, anyway. Dawn’s at school. I just couldn’t stay in that damn hospital any longer. It smells like death, Spike. Death and hand sanitizer. I was ready to puke.”

He chuckles. “Well, death don’t smell too awful. Though I suppose most dead aren’t as well groomed as I am. Spend quite a bit on deodorant for a bloke who died over a century ago.”

Buffy manages to quirk a smilie. He grins.

“There you go, Slayer. S’not all bad. Joyce’ll be fine, I told ya. You never give up hope; trust me, I know. Used to infuriate me. Makes you a force to be reckoned with.”

His eyes fall to her hand, so close to his. He’s not sure if it’s worth risking. There’s a very real possibility that she’ll break his fingers. Against what his head is screaming, his hand covers hers weightlessly. She’s so warm. He can feel the blood thrumming through her veins. Her eyes fall to their hands, but she makes no comment. He knows she has to be thinking of Riley. Soddin’ Riley, with the looks and personality of an untoasted slice of white bread. Especially now that the doctor fixed him up. Least before, at the Initiative, he’d served a purpose. Now he’s useless, and maybe Buffy’s starting to see that. He knows she craves adventure. Danger. Probably has a thing for bad boys. Who is she trying to kid with Mr. Joe Normal? She needs the yin to her yang. Bread boy ain’t coverin’ it.

“Spike.” She swallows, “I have to get back to the hospital soon. ...and I should eat something. Crap. I should go get a cup of Easy Mac or something.”

“I can order us in a pizza. Or, you. I mean, I’m gonna take some, either way. Don’t call me the ‘Big Bad’ for nought.”

She groans and leans her head against his shoulder. “Pizza sounds perfect. Only if there’s pepperoni and olives, though. Anything else is a deal breaker. Number for the pizza place is on the fridge.”

Spike stands and is taken in by the moment, looking at her. He’s in her room. She’s on her bed. He’s ordering food with his own money for the  _ bloody Slayer _ .

She weakly smiles at him.

And, for a split second, he can swear his heart is beating.


End file.
